


Big Man in foster care, what will he do

by Peachyboyy



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Author Is Not Religious, Bad Parenting, Child Neglect, Depressed TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Foster Care, Foster Kid TommyInnit, Good Friend Darryl Noveschosch, Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), I'm Bad At Tagging, IRL Fic, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kleptomania, Mentioned Darryl Noveschosch, Mentioned Grayson | Purpled, No Romance, Past Rape/Non-con, Religious Conflict, Running Away, SHIPPERS DNI, Self-Harm, Sleepy Bois Inc Angst, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Social Worker Darryl Noveschosch, TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Touch-Starved, Traumatized Tommyinnit (Video Blogging RPF), Tubbo comes in later in the story dwdw, Very big trigger warning, no beta we die like men, past self-harm, touch repulsed, whenever i’m in writers block i simply flesh out characters and add tags, why isn’t “touch repulsed” a tag IT HAPPENS TO THE BEST OF US
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:08:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29416155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peachyboyy/pseuds/Peachyboyy
Summary: TommyInnit’s had a hard life. He was put into the foster care system at seven years old. He’s dealing with it (*cough* suppressing all of his trauma *cough*). He’s not so sure he can trust this new family, but he wants to. He hates that he wants to.
Relationships: Darryl Noveschosch & TommyInnit, No Romantic Relationship(s), Phil Watson & Technoblade & Wilbur Soot, Phil Watson & TommyInnit, Technoblade & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 42
Kudos: 616





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!! Title will probably change! i wrote this on my notes app >:D anyways updates will be infrequent just fyi
> 
> i don’t have a beta, feel free to point out any grammatical mistakes, or mistakes with the actual content of the book!!! i’m bad at research but i tried my best 
> 
> Please please PLEASE heed the trigger warnings!!! They’re in the tags but I’ll put them down here in car y’all skipped over them (also shippers DNI) 
> 
> TWs: Implied/ referenced child abuse, implied/ referenced neglect, implied/ referenced drug use, implied/referenced alcoholism, intense religious beliefs (mentioned), implied/ referenced CSA, implied/ referenced anorexia, implied/ referenced homophobia and implied/ referenced suicide. 
> 
> Please take care of yourselves!!!!! I love you all!!!!

Tommy learned a lot of things at his first house. He learnt how to spell his name, how to do his own hair, and how to crack open a can of beer. He was taught to shower in the mornings, right before school, to make sure he didn’t smell, and not to touch the kitchen cabinet to the right of the sink. His parents tried to teach him what to say if anybody ever asked how home was- he didn’t learn that one too well, nor did he take to the lesson on how to hide the punishments his parents gave him. The consequence of taking food he hadn’t asked for resided on Tommy’s wrist, and was visited by his opposite hand relatively often enough only to tug down on his sleeve once more; it hadn’t been enough, and was the reason he was taken from his first family.

His in-between home couldn’t really be called a home; the peeling wallpaper, creaking stairs, cracked tiles, moldy grout, and the absence of warmth and care and love in general made it a house. It was ratty, and worn-down, and drove away more ‘business’ than it brought; that didn’t matter, though, because it was where Tommy had found and lost his second family. 

Being only seven at the time, Tommy was forced to share a room- it held two bunkbeds (but only three mattresses), a closet, a dresser, and would have been boring if not for the two other boys it contained: one, a boy his age named Grayson, who insisted he be called ‘Purpled’ (Tommy likened the boy’s outburst at refusal to do to his own episodes), and another boy who hadn’t given a name besides ‘Pigicial‘. When Tommy had been at the in-between house for three weeks, Purpled had gone. Two months after that, the week after Tommy had stolen a box of hair dye and learned how much the color pink suited Pig, Purpled returned. It wasn’t an event of grandeur, by any means; he had opened the door to the two other boys loudly bickering while playing a slightly aggressive game of catch on their beds across the room, with bandages on his knuckles, and smiled, because it hurt his ribs to laugh. 

That was Purpled’s third house- Tommy had only had the one home, and Pig was in the same boat as him. Purpled set his bag down by the closet door, and laid on his bed quietly. Later that night, he would whisper to Tommy of what happened. He would tell him to be wary, and to make sure he kept his guard up. Tommy would never forget his voice, hoarse as if he hadn’t spoken the entire time he was in house number three, when he whispered about how the world was a bad place, and that sometimes it couldn’t be helped. Tommy thought he knew too much for being only seven. 

Purpled was gone again by four months time. Tommy hadn’t been there to say goodbye. Purpled hadn’t come back from his house number four. When Tommy came back from his first foster house- he lasted two weeks before they got irritated and annoyed of his brash attitude and loud demeanor- Purpled was gone. They had a house computer, but Tommy never tried to contact him; he told himself that it was because he didn’t know Purpled’s last name, but part of him knew that it was because he was afraid. 

Pigicial had also been shipped off while Tommy was in his first foster house. He came back, half a year after Tommy did, much skinnier than Tommy remembered, with his brown roots very obviously peeking out under his pink head of hair, puffy red eyes and tear tracks on his cheeks. Tommy hadn’t asked him what happened, not wanting to intrude, but Pig told him; they had really loved him, they had, but the monthly checks they were getting for him weren’t enough to feed another mouth. Tommy ended up with the job of rubbing Pig’s back, as he vomited into their floor’s toilet, because he had forced himself to finish his plate- after a while, he was relieved of his job, and Pig was able to eat more and look healthier. 

Tommy went to his third foster home three months after this second, and over a year after he had been first entered in the system. It was almost uneventful. The fosters left him alone in a closet for the most part. The closet locked from the outside, and the coats inside absorbed the sound, so he spent most of his time in house three in what was essentially solitary confinement. His fosters’s occasional outbursts, however, left him shaking in fear and clutching wherever he had been gifted a new bruise. They reminded him of his parents, but they didn’t tell Tommy they were sorry, and that it wasn’t really them- that they would be better. That had only happened six times in Tommy’s stay with them; he didn’t know the exact date of how long he stayed, whether it was four or five months, because he often missed school, which is how he usually counted. He was returned after they had realized he wasn’t worth it, with a newfound phobia of confined spaces. 

His social worker, Bad, ( _“Please, Tommy, just call me Darryl.” “No, bitch.”_ ) let him put his feet on the dash of his car, after that; Tommy wanted to be mad at the clear pity, but he overwhelmed by the gratefulness when able to stretch his legs. 

When he got back to the group home, Pig was gone. He wasn’t surprised; Bad had broken the news to him on the ride back. He gave Tommy the comfort of a hand on his back while he cried, and the decency of privacy with his eyes on the road. 

From then on, Tommy shared a room with a collection of temporary boys. There was Deo, who was three years older than him, and kept a worn santa hat on him at all times- he was Tommy’s idol, but only shared the room for a year. Overlapping with Deo, was Rudy, a quieter boy who was also 8 years old, and matched Tommy’s wit in full whenever he decided to speak up. They became instant friends, and were quickly inseparable. Rudy was out before Deo. Next was a succession of a boys Tommy, freshly nine years old, barely bothered to take note of, because it seemed everyone he got attached to left by the time he had returned from his newest foster house. 

His houses were short and mundane, with most average fosters being unable to ‘handle him’. He had a habit of stealing, which he got better at over time, but labeled him as a ‘problem child’ very early on. Sprinkled in with the normal fosters were the longer, several month long fosters who didn’t even try to care. 

House five was a drug house, and used him for money to supply them- he had hotboxed (unwillingly, obviously) over one hundred times by the time he was nine. He understood why Pig wasn’t used to full meals after house five. He didn’t mind talking about them when asked, because they reminded him of house three, without the anger. The group house cycled though more boys. These two were smaller than him, only seven, and Tommy gave them the ball he and Pig had tossed around. 

He went into house nine when he was nine and a half years old, and left when he was a week shy of ten; he spent that birthday in the hospital. Bad tried to stay with him as much as possible, and brought him a vanilla cupcake on his birthday. Tommy liked Bad a lot, despite the nickname. He was sweet, and genuinely tried his best. He was never nasty towards Tommy, and made sure he knew he cared. House nine hurt him, a lot, in ways he had been told before was very wrong- but it was unlike the wrong of how his original parents bruised him when he was bad. Bad frequently told Tommy he was sorry he had put him there. Tommy didn’t blame him. He told him such. Bad cried a lot for an adult. Tommy didn’t like to talk about house nine. 

The group home had another cycle of boys. 

House thirteen made him sleep on a dog bed in the garage. Their biological kids slept warmly, using the foster money.

He turned eleven. 

House fourteen kept him for three days, before Bad picked him up and told him softly that they just ‘weren’t a good fit’. Tommy had broken down into his arms that day, and Bad hugged him and reassured him that it was on them. ( _“You,” Bad had whispered “did nothing wrong. Nothing is your fault.” Tommy burrowed his head further into his shoulder, hands still gripping his shirt._ ) They had both agreed that they wouldn’t mention that again- Tommy, out of embarrassment, and Bad, out of respect for the former. 

There were new boys at the group home. Tommy came back to discover that his bottom mattress had been taken, and he had been forced into the old mattress of Pig and Deo and a million boys before them.

House sixteen bought him a phone, and gave him his own room. It didn’t have a lock. He quickly discovered that house sixteen was exactly like house nine, and he jumped out of his window with the over-the-shoulder bag that Bad had given him. It was one of the houses that was only a few miles from the group home, so he ran there. Bad found out about his new phone and gave him his number and asked him to call or text if he needed anything. He started to pay for its bill. It went from short check ups when Tommy was in houses, to friendly exchanges of Tommy sending long strings of swear words and Bad sending pictures of his dog, Lucy. 

There was another cycle of boys at the group home. One was much older than Tommy- fifteen. It turns out that he must have had snuck medicine from a previous house, because one day Tommy tried to wake him up for breakfast, only for him to not wake. He had comforted Tommy after a nightmare only a night before. 

He turned twelve. 

House twenty liked to put on the show of a perfect family. Tommy was used to make the parents seem like good, charitable Christians. Eventually, they found out about his hobby of ‘borrowing’, and were upset about his ‘sins’. They told Tommy he was dirty, and unsalvageable, before they sent him back. He began to hate religion. He began to hate himself. He didn’t mind as much when houses didn’t feed him. He wondered if what Bad had told him after house fourteen was what he wanted to say after houses nine and sixteen. 

There was a new set of boys at the group house. A boy named Freddie took his old bunk- Tommy found himself liking the high ground- and a boy named Eryn took the bunk that belonged to Rudy and Purpled. They were all called problem children. Eryn shared his distaste for the system, because he was labeled a problem after running from an abusive home. Freddie had told them about his habit of hoarding food, after his fourth home, and both boys made an effort to slide him their leftovers after that. Tommy told them about his kleptomania, which led to them frequenting drab drug stores without cameras to test his nimbleness and slight of hand. He lied his way out of situations often. He found himself growing attached.

Tommy turned thirteen. 

House twenty-three took the door off of his room. It was a single woman. She spent hours lecturing him with homophobic rhetoric much like that of house twenty. He was brought there a month before his fourteenth birthday, and until late September of that year, when he left, he wasn’t allowed to have his school friends over, unless they were girls (they were not). 

Freddie and Eryn were still at the group home. Tommy found himself sliding full plates of food over to Freddie, at times.

It was after house twenty-six broke his arm that Bad had offered Tommy his place. He said that if Tommy ever found himself wanting out of the system, he would help. He even gave Tommy the option of emancipation, once he turned sixteen. Tommy cried, but declined. A small part of him wanted to have hope. That small part of him was incredibly naive, and was also the reason he ended up getting hurt by every house, and he hated it. Bad understood. He didn’t retract the offer. He signed Tommy’s cast, and drove him to get it off. He still sent pictures of Lucy. 

Tommy was glad for a constant in his life. 

Tommy turned fifteen.


	2. foster boogaloo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uhh basically tommy meets the new foster family

It wasn’t often that Tommy was in a house for longer than a month. Because of his coveted “problem child” status, which Bad cursed out without actually cursing every chance he got, not many families even tried with him. It was half a year after his fifteenth birthday and the twenty ninth tally on his wall that he saw Bad visibly excited. 

Tommy’s social worker never usually had faith in a foster family- it had happened maybe five times before, and occurred less as the years went on- but his joy was infectious, and Tommy found himself a mix of apprehensive and childishly excited for his next fosters. 

-

The drive back from their monthly fast food outing (in which they had whenever Tommy was at the group house, so Bad could ‘subtly’ make sure Tommy ate) was dampened by the news. Car rides often were. He was now less excited to meet the new fosters. 

“I know” Bad started “you’ve had... past experiences with people newer to the system, and people with biological kids, and single fathers.”

Tommy rolled his eyes, and adjusted his feet on the dash “Bit of an understatement, yeah?”

His eyes drifted to the window, and he crossed his arms. He knew he was just making the atmosphere more tense, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care, and he knew Bad knew him well enough by then to take care of it. 

“I,” voice small, and hesitant, “I really think this guy is different. I know I’ve made mistakes of trusting people in the past, and you don’t blame me for those- you should, Tommy- God knows that you should-“

Tommy tensed in his seat. _It was an expression. It was just an expression_. It used to be the closet Bad got to cursing, but he stopped after house twenty. _It was just an expression_. He gripped his arms tighter, his knuckles nearly white. The movement didn’t go unnoticed. 

“Wait, no, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that- just-“ Bad stopped at a light, and sighed, slumping down slightly. “I know that you blame yourself, but you shouldn’t. You’re too young to have gone through this much, and it’s not your fault for having hope. No matter what you’ve been told, it’s not your fault.” 

He knew Tommy too well. He wanted to say it bothered him, that Bad somehow knew whenever he was down, and could pick out from text responses whether to send small reassurances, pictures of Rat, or to just shut up. Tommy wanted to say it bothered him how Bad would sit quietly, letting him yell or say hurtful things or lash out and comfort him afterwords. It didn’t. It made him warm inside, and festered the small ball of hope he had for humanity. He had been through too much shit for someone his age, but he was nothing if not stubborn, so he had promised himself that he would age out of the system, or find a family, or die in it. ( _Sometimes, he wondered whether the family he found was Bad, and he had asked him such, once in the hospital. Bad had replied, smiling, “I would love to be part of your family, if you would have me, Tommy” That conversation was cut short, with Tommy having happy-cried himself to sleep in Bad’s arms._ )

He tuned back in to the conversation, only to hear Bad rambling the basics of the family off. 

“Sorry, Big D, I didn’t quite catch that.” Bad quietly laughed (at the nickname, or his demeanor, Tommy didn’t know, but he chose to believe it was the former) and started from the top.

“Alright, so, I don’t wanna say too much because you’re gonna meet him tomorrow, but his name is Phil Watson, he’s got the two bio sons I told you about, and this is his first time fostering. He’s got a stable job, and nobody in the household has a criminal record, nor any strict religious affiliations. They’ve been thoroughly checked out- recently, may I add- and there’s no inkling of substance abuse in the household.” Bad looked over at him briefly to see tension lift, as he sat contemplating. 

“That’s,” Tommy hesitated, back to staring out the window, trying to find the words. His mind scrambled as he was reminded of every bad past experience in an attempt to keep his expectations low. He failed, and a hope he often regretted feeling made his heart swell, “good.” 

Bad turned back to the road, and gave another warm smile. “Yeah” he finally replied, “it is.”

-

Tommy wasn’t ready. He was meeting Phil today. He had done this twenty nine times before. It was his thirtieth house. He was never ready. 

Freddie and Eryn had gone to school, as had most of the other boys. An older boy named Larry, who was almost aged out of the system, was at the house with a stomach bug that had him stuck in his room. He had been in the group house since Tommy was ten, and Tommy had grown to see him like a brother. He knew that, since Larry was just about to turn 18, he would most likely he gone when Tommy came back. So he slipped a ‘get well’ card he had borrowed ( _“Tommy, please stop calling it ‘borrowing’. If I have to pick you up from the station for theft, you should call it that.” “Well- I mean- they made me put it back, so technically_ -“) and vandalized with his scruffy signature, his number, and a “bitch” for good measure under the older boy’s door. There was silence in response. 

He gripped the strap of the bag Bad had given him when he was smaller ( _“Oh- uh- you don’t have to, big man-“ “Tommy, it’s nothing, really. It would make me feel better to know you had it.”_ ) with hands that were not sweaty, because he was not nervous; as he thought to himself, he recognized the instinctual denial of his unpreparedness. He was a mess.

There were voices from below. Two of them familiar, and one warm, and accented strangely. Tommy knew he was just waiting from a text from Bad to make his way down to the house office, and opened his phone to his only contact.

Not even fifteen seconds later, his phone dinged, with a text from the man himself. Tommy, trying to distract himself from his nerves, smirked and internally complimented himself on how much of a fucking genius he was for that timing.

Legs 100% not shaking- _they weren’t, fuck off_ -, Tommy went down the stairs at a totally moderate pace, not delaying anything at all, which was apparently routine enough for Bad to have texted him a minute early, to get him on time. Fucker. 

Inside the office was Bad, behind a desk, seated next to the group house’s attendant, whose name was Vincent, but was better known as ‘bitchboy’ among the older kids. A man with short blonde hair in jeans and a plain green t-shirt sat at the desk’s opposite chair, and standing next to him awkwardly were two teenagers. One of them was a brunette, tall as a fucking beanstalk, and had on skinny jeans with the brightest shade of yellow Tommy’s ever seen. The other was nearly just as tall, but had rectangular glasses and wore a huge black hoodie with sweats; Tommy would’ve thought him intimidating, because of his dead expression, but he held himself too awkwardly, and his pink hair tugged at his heart and reminded him of his first roommates. 

They all stared at him for too long. He diverted his attention to Bad, who smiled softly- Tommy wished he could be mad and call it pity, but Bad knew him better than anyone- and eyed the chair a few feet away from the man he presumed was Phil. Tommy made his way over to the chair, still tense, and sat.

The room was quiet.

Bitchboy, with his stupid french accent, broke the silence. “Tommy, this is Phil, and his two sons. You’ll be going home with them today.” His smile was strained, as if he was saying _“for the love of fuck, don’t mess this up”_. Tommy, mentally, returned the sentiment with _“you’re a prick”_. Very clever of him. In reality, all he did was nod his head with a smile that Bad definitely saw through, and turned to Phil. 

The man spoke, and Tommy pinned him as the source of the strange accent from earlier- what was it, Scottish? He hasn’t heard that accent before, not counting the TV. Blinking, he realized that Phil had said something, and now had a hand outstretched to his. Tommy chanced a glance at Bad, who shook his head, which Tommy took as him saying _“you don’t have to”_ which fucking rocked, so he simply continued gripping his bag’s strap to death, while he looked Phil in the eyes ( _because house twenty ‘strongly encouraged’ eye contact and he hadn’t been able to fully shake himself of it_ ) and cycled through a mantra he had perfected: “Hi my name is Tommy, and I’m fifteen. I like the piano. Thank you for giving me a chance.” 

The pink haired boy slightly elbowed his brother at the mention of the piano, still no expression, while the brunette looked kind of surprised. Yeah, Tommy hadn’t actually touched a piano since he was twelve, but he was always constantly tapping his fingers on his bag in a pattern that he knew was one of Chopin’s Nocturnes, or writing patterns of notes that had interested him, or finding himself staring a little too much longer than necessary at the piano in the living room which he wasn’t allowed to touch, because he was something dirty, that house thirteen picked straight up off the street, and he _should’ve been more grateful_ -

“Right, then, Tommy. These two behind me are my sons, Technoblade-“ the pink haired guy nodded at him- “and Wilbur.” The brunette looked into his eyes and gave a slight glare. _Ah,_ Tommy thought, _that one’s territorial_. Despite their less than enthusiastic introductions, he did his best to keep his face a perfect mask, and smiled at each of the boys. 

The brunette- Wilbur, his mind reminded him- scoffed softly, which earned him another elbow to the ribs from Technoblade- _what kind of name even was that? It was abstract and stupid, and definitely strengthened Tommy’s mental connection between him and Pigicial_ \- who seemed, at the very least, willing to put on a nice front for the social workers. It was more than most. 

“Right, then,” Bitchboy continued speaking, and Tommy tuned him out. It was the regular speech of ‘Thank-you-for-giving-this-brat-a-chance’ which Tommy, the brat in question, had come to have a dislike for, over the years. It was boring, and repetitive, and only made more time for Tommy’s thoughts to get away from him. Often times it led to getting his hopes up, which is exactly what Tommy tried his best not to do at that very moment; it didn’t work (it never did). Sure, he didn’t think either of the bio kids particularly liked him, but at least Phil seemed nice enough. Maybe they would just leave him alone, for the most part. He’d like that. 

_Wait, what? Shit, fuck-_

It turned out that Tommy had zoned out for too long, and everyone was getting up and moving, baring himself, who was still clumsily sat in a chair, and the two twins, who were already standing. He quickly got up from his seat, and maneuvered his way to Bad. 

Bad held out his arms, and they had a quick hug, which Tommy found bittersweet every time (leaning more on the side of bitter, more often than not). Keeping his arms on Tommy’s shoulders, Bad whispered, “Remember to ring me if you need anything.” The former nodded and became tense again, as if remembering the situation. Bad’s arms fell from his shoulders, and he gave him another reassuring smile. 

“Alright then,” the Scottish ( _???_ ) voice from earlier spoke up, and Tommy turned to face it. “Let’s get this show on the road, yeah?” 

Taking a deep breath, Tommy nodded; it seemed to be enough for Phil, as he returned the nod with his own, bright, smile, and said his goodbyes to Bitchboy and Bad. 

Phil turned out the door, with his teenagers and Tommy following him. They turned down the hallway that brought them to the front of the door, which Phil held open; Wilbur and Technoblade made their way out, silent, but Tommy ducked his head and muttered a small “Thank you” he hoped was polite enough. Feeling eyes on his back, he tried to make himself even smaller, getting white knuckles from grasping the bag’s handle throughout. 

Eventually, the pairs of feet Tommy was following from the top of his eyesight stopped, so he did as well. He looked up to see a typical suburban SUV, which fit pretty well with how he pinned these guys. Phil went to the driver’s seat and unlocked the car. The brunette sat in the passenger seat, and the pinkette ( _how do you even-_ ) sat in the seat behind the driver’s, leaving Tommy the seat behind the passengers. 

They were clearly uncomfortable. 

He could work with this. 

-

The drive to house thirty was uneventful. Phil attempted a few conversation starters, to which Tommy blandly replied. From what he could see on the reflection on his window, the two brothers were actually in a text conversation- the real atmosphere was too uneasy, it seemed. Tommy settled for ~~noting telephone booths, small convenience stores, bus stations, and street signs~~ sight seeing. 

After about thirty or so minutes, the car slowed down. The neighborhood was rich looking, and struck something akin to cold fear in Tommy. Sure, this family seemed boring, but the last “boring looking” rich family was house twenty (which, Tommy thought, the trauma of which might come in handy). 

The car powered off. 

Phil and Technoblade stepped out of the car. Wilbur lingered a second longer, throwing a glance over his shoulder at Tommy. 

They both stepped out of the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um yea i wanted to upload this after i had already finished the animatic i’m working on but i’ll probably attach it to ch3 idk?? 
> 
> anyways these v short chapters are being pumped out in record time because i’m in the middle of the texas situation so i have nothing to do besides this


	3. MTV cribs w guest star: anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tommy thinks he knows what’s going on w the fosters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi it’s been 10 days i am sorry
> 
> in all seriousness the following trigger warnings apply: Implication of anxiety, mentions of fostering/ foster care system, implied problems with authority, ‘talk’ of money/ wealth, self deprecation, indirect mention of suicide, indirect mention of neglect, indirect mention of drug use

The driveway was bloody long. The walk from the car to the house’s doors took forever, in Tommy’s mind, but that just as easily could’ve been the culmination of two days of nerves he had procrastinated feeling which hit him all at once.

Sweaty palms having not let go of his bag, he followed the beanstalk boy to the front of the house, and tried his best to take in the absolute unit that it was. It wasn’t like the french or colonial style mansions that Tommy had been exposed to- it was one of those modern, mostly glass mansions that didn’t seem to have a singular curved aspect. He didn’t know whether to think it more or less pretentious because of that. Despite their doors being fucking massive, Tommy still felt the need to duck his head, and avoid eye contact, when walking through. 

Immediately after entering, the brunette grabbed his brother’s wrist and tugged him down a hallway to their right. Seemingly unphased, Technoblade just cast a look back at Tommy and thew up a peace sign before disappearing around the corner. 

Tommy tensed. He was now alone, with Phil. Who knows what he might do? He didn’t seem like the type of guy to be harsh without reason, and Tommy didn’t get a particularly bad vibe, but he’s not completely naive, either. 

“So,” Phil started, awkwardly, “I think I should start with a tour?” He shrugged, and looked to Tommy as if it was his decision. 

_Fuck yeah_ , Tommy mentally cheered, _boring house_.

It was most probably his inexperience with the whole ‘fostering’ thing naturally leading him to consult Tommy on what usually happened. Generally, in the boring houses, there was a basic rundown of the house’s layout and rules, then he was introduced into where he was staying, and then he was left alone. 

Not wanting to go against what Phil thought best, Tommy only nodded his head in agreement, and then downcast it. He felt Phil’s stare, and could tell he was waiting for more, just in case. Tommy didn’t look up to meet his gaze after the nod.

“Alright then, let’s begin.” Tommy could hear the footsteps walking, so he followed. 

He’s not admitting how comforting it was to realize that the man made noise when he walked. _Chances of a boring house had shot up again_.

Only two steps later, he was introduced to the living room, which had copious amounts of family pictures, all taken unprofessionally, trophies in the names of both children, and a surprisingly welcoming atmosphere. There was a soft white rug on the dark wood floor, and on top of the rug was a very rectangular couch at least 3 meters long. It was decorated sparingly with two throw pillows and a blanket folded and draped haphazardly on the back of the couch. There was a matching loveseat with its own blanket. The T.V. stand, across the couch, was littered with various boxes of movies, and console games controllers and cartridges. The glass table in between housed a few books, which looked to be well read, and coasters. 

If Tommy was being honest, he expected both none of it, and all of it. 

“Uh- this is the living room.” Phil’s voice halted Tommy’s observations, as he threw the older man a nod with eye contact. 

“There’s really nothing that warrants conversation here. The room behind the couch area is the kitchen, and what branches off of that are the dining room and a side hallway. The hallway just houses the wine cellar and the garage door. There’s also a staircase to the bedroom hallway. It’s nothing you’ll need to know, if I’m honest.” 

_Well_ , Tommy blinked, _that’s quite a lot to take in at once_.

Phil, who had been pointing in different directions and gesturing at the wall behind the couches, slipped his hand into his pocket and turned to Tommy, who just stood, silently, staring back at him. 

Clearly made a bit more uncomfortable from the response- or lack thereof- Phil turned around, back to the entrance, and pointed in the hallway to their right, while walking. 

“That leads to my office, the backyard, another staircase, the downstairs bathroom, and the second living room.”  
These rooms had the same friendly atmosphere, and were just as homely. The house was very open. 

Tommy was slightly ashamed at how comforting he felt the environment was. 

“But, um, yeah! That’s the tour. Despite its size, our house is pretty simple. Your bedroom is upstairs, the door at the very end of the hall at the right,” he clicked his tongue, “and there’s a bathroom attached.”

Phil looked up at him, smiling softly. “If you ever need anything, tell one of us. You can join back at school when you feel ready to. Would you up to go shopping later in the week, maybe?”

 _Fucking huh_? Tommy blanked. No adults had ever gotten him things out of kindness except for Bad. And they- once again, disregarding Bad- certainly didn’t ask if he felt okay with it. This house was strangely out of the norm. 

~~_The hope in his chest grew a little larger_ ~~

Realizing he had been silent for too long after being addressed, he squished the bud of warmth he felt and responded. “You don’t have to get me anything, really, sir.” 

He shouldn’t have hope. _~~Being at a school and going shopping both mean longer stays~~_. Why did he even bother trying to hope for something better?

 ~~ _He knew his last thought had been a lie to himself. He didn’t try to hope. He was just stupid, and naive. He was ashamed of being naive. He was ashamed about a lot of things_~~.

“It’s really nothing, mate. I’m sure you could tell from the house, but money’s not an issue.” 

He gripped his bag a little tighter.

Of course money wasn’t an issue. Phil didn’t seem like the type of man to say things like that as a slight ( ~~ _how was he so casual? How could money not be a big deal?_~~ ). Tommy had only known him for the couple of hours, yeah, but he thought he had a pretty good handle on reading people, after his 8 or so years in the foster system. ( ~~ _Why was he acting like money was just money? Something simple and not of a terribly high worth? Surely, money was worth a lot, right? Because if money didn’t mean jack shit, then why was it valued over him?_~~ )

His breaths became more shallow. 

Phil didn’t notice. He awkwardly clapped his hands, to which Tommy slightly flinched, and cleared his throat. 

“I’ll be in my office now, and if you ever need me, chances are I’ll be in there. I’ll just let you settle into your room now.” 

He gripped his bag’s strap even harder, trying not to start crying. He was never good at not crying.

Phil walked with him to the staircase. 

Tommy didn’t know if he was allowed to speak, so he instead gave Phil a soft smile, which he hoped conveyed gratitude.

That, apparently, had been good enough for Phil. He beamed ( _possibly at finally getting eye contact back? ~~Maybe it was at seeing Tommy’s reluctance to speak, or his watery eyes-~~_ ) before turning back and making his way to what Tommy mentally pinned as the office. 

He was alone on the stairway, about to go upstairs, to the door at the end of the hall on the right. 

It was strange- he was never usually left alone in the house’s main areas until a week or so in. Since he had a history, most posh families were (understandably) hesitant to him out of their eyesight. 

Tommy decided he liked the small sense of freedom. Maybe Phil had realized he had a problem with that, after reading his file. 

Come to think of it, Tommy didn’t even know what was on his file, anymore. Of course, the time he ran away was there, and the few houses that landed him in the hospital were also reported, and his trips to the police station, but what else? His refusal to eat, his sneaking out, the school fights, the episodes of anger he had when he was little, the house that kept him in a garage, the time he ~~found the older foster kid~~ was returned from a fosters’, smelling so strongly of weed he made a smaller kid cry?

_What did Phil know?_

Bad would probably tell Tommy if he asked.

He hadn’t moved from the first step. 

_Tommy could call Bad, and Bad would tell him. He’d double check before reading his file to him. He wouldn’t mention names- only house numbers. Bad was careful like that._

Tommy had made his way halfway up the staircase. 

_He’d probably text Tommy by the early hour of 2. Bad was a workaholic, but always found the time to check in on Tommy. In Tommy’s dumb, stupid, child brain, he likened it to a sibling away at uni._

He was dangerously close to the top of the stairs when he heard them. 

Muffled from behind a door; but still clearly in an annoyed manner, one of the two giants spoke.

He finished making his way up the staircase. His tunnel vision focused on the door at the end of the hall to the right.

~~_“He just seems like a fucking brat, y’know? A weasel, that Dad picked off the street, for what?”_~~

All he had to do was get to the door at the end of the hall to the right. 

~~_“Wil, you’re being a bit harsh.”_~~

~~_“I’m fucking not. We don’t need someone else here. Dad’s just going to be more stressed, and I know he makes you uncomfortable-“_~~

~~_“Don’t speak for me.”_~~

The door at the end of the hall to the right was a bit blurry. _Huh. Weird._

_~~Tommy was never good at not crying.~~ _

He had his hand on the handle. The door opened. It shut behind him. He couldn’t hear the boys anymore. 

He was unable to see the layout of his room, but assumed the large, gray blob in the corner was his bed, so he threw his bad under it and himself atop. 

Silently processing what he had overheard, Tommy made the executive decision to avoid interactions with the brothers, as much as he could. 

_Why did he even bother getting his hopes up for something better?_

He fell asleep on top of the bed’s comforter with his shoes on, puffy eyes, watery cheeks, and a building headache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi y’all don’t have to read these they’re just notes
> 
> anyways sorry this is out late but i did create this: https://www.reddit.com/r/wilbursoot/comments/lnzrml/practicing_my_realism/
> 
> ANYWAYS  
> some things i tried to convey but probably didn’t do too well so they might come off confusing or hypocritical: 
> 
> \- tommy only speaking when directly asked a question  
> \- tommy’s flipping between eye contact & no eye contact because he still doesn’t know what the watsons are like  
> \- tommy’s switch of mindset between naive hope & the mature side he’s developed
> 
> also: some lines are repeated in tommy’s head because i wanted to pls don’t judge me
> 
> I WANTED TO INCLUDE FIC RECOMMENDATIONS!!!  
> \- “tubbo has two hands” and “spiderinnit” by diapason  
> \- anything by qar (holy shit so much angst)  
> \- anything by leggyman (i’ve literally binged all of their fics)  
> \- “TommyInnit's unbeatable method of avoiding sudden death” by eneli  
> \- “that’s, like, a hundred miles” by No_one_you_know  
> \- “if history is dead and gone” by iregreatallmydecisions  
> \- “when all is lost (then all is found)” by kalkiesoo  
> \- “the fall of a hero” series by cracklesnaple
> 
> finally: thank you for all the love on this fic!!! your comments honestly are what gets me out of writers block haha


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